


Legion

by BubblegumCannibal



Category: Warframe
Genre: Ash (mentioned) - Freeform, Other, Second Dream, The Second Dream, but it also stemmed more of my headcanons., man this mission fucked me up., so yes this is headcanon/lore based.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblegumCannibal/pseuds/BubblegumCannibal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are Legion, for we are many. As well as some. The sentient being Hunhow has been pushed back, for now, but now stands the question of what are we? Are we the children of the Lotus or are we clones of what used to be? As the Tenno, we deserve an answer we will never receive.</p><p>...But at least one will speak to us happily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legion

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't played the Second Dream, I highly request that you do. It's so good. Otherwise, light to grand spoilers are coming.
> 
> So headcanon time: Despite what is now out there, Frames are techno-organic replications of yesteryear. When Tenno fell during the Old War, what was found of their suits, living quarters, what-have-you, their DNA was used to establish a link between Operator and frame. Yet as years progress, the DNA strengthened, they were able to build bodies, physical bodies, for the frames. Eventually they grew their own minds and ideals, but with them aging together, many of the researchers and scientists noticed that the Frames began to lead themselves to rebuilding where they left off at. Some reconnected relationships. Others went on a hunt to find their friends. Most were successful.
> 
> Please enjoy.

_Do not misunderstand me when I tell you this, Tenno._

_**He** was the first._

_**You** are him…_

_Just as much as he is **you.**_

Machines hum the group stands in silence. All of them knew something about their so called “origins” had to have been a masked, murky myth only Mother Lotus held clouded away from them as a way to play it off as amnesia. Now here sat the truth in form of a young man. Poor thing couldn’t be more than eighteen, maybe twenty-one at the latest?

Creators, he’s so young…

Yet Excalibur stood tall, body aching from the previous battle just days prior, fists taut at the sight of this _boy._ That face— ** _HIS FACE_** – was stolen. It was a face of a child not ready for the battle that tore him to pieces. It was the face of a child who watched his friends, his team, **his lover,** die one by one in hopes to save others from an unfortunate happenstance.

…That was **_his_** face. One he had long evolved from.

There’s a click and unnatural warble as the Frame pulls his hands from his face, helmet in hand now. Though his gaze sat downward, his fingers clicked away at the sides of the helm. What could he say? The truth now sat out in the open that none of them—not one last member of this ship—was _real._ Clones? Replications? …Abominations? What were they?

Warframes. They were the creations of what was lost so many centuries ago… That’s what Lotus said.

He tensed at the grip around his bicep, Ash’s white talons squeezing him gently in hopes of reassuring Excalibur that he wasn’t alone in how he felt. They are all confused. If one lives, just as young as this one, does that mean the rest of them still breathe? Must they be found alongside the other Tenno? How many actually survived the war? Oh!—dizzy had Excalibur felt, but with determination he pushed himself forward, free of the other frame’s grasp.

The team stood in anxious wait, hoping the frame would speak up, yet nothing. The Warlord never spoke, simply studied. Hand at the boy’s cheek, as well as his own, he trailed the deep marred skin that sat there for decades. It looked fresh on him, still dark and heavily textured as if whatever made it destroyed him just a few years beforehand, but raised the question of:

“Why didn’t we fix this? What did this?”

The boy sat there in his pod for a moment before turning the glow of his pastel orange optics to the older being. There was a shrug, simple and short, “The one you call Ash found it… desirable after I was knocked by a rioting Orokin. He said, ‘it’s a good thing scars make the warrior.’ So I kept it. I turned away the surgery.”

Excalibur thumbs the scar, reminded of the one he shared. It’s fairly lighter, still just as deep, a bit smoother, and still just as massive. Though the boy still holds some of his young features, the difference is apparent. Excalibur has aged, for it shows in the dusted scruff of his now squaring jawline, and the freckles now as darkened sunspots on tan skin in comparison to the lighter dots that peppered youthful skin. His eyes no longer hold that glow, for they hold the original color of an amber-gold rather than the synthetic augmentation the boy had.

A boy born with a power wielded by few… without the ability of sight. But, to see what his eyes used to be, it brings a brief, warm smile to his lips. They may be replications, but they still hold that link… that _similarity_ in a way. Something to show that they were far more than just clones. All of them were the family he had lost so long ago.

The boy lifts his hand, grabbing Excalibur’s cheeks, his smile widening from feeling the warmth beneath his finger tips, “ **We** are Azarel. That is _our_ name. Remember that.”


End file.
